


Strictly Professional

by nanami



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanami/pseuds/nanami
Summary: Hubert knew he'd have to explain this to the President someday, but it doesn't make preparing for the meeting any less nerve-wracking.And Malik could make it easier by taking somethingseriouslyfor once.





	Strictly Professional

“—and the last time someone attempted to enter the President's office with an unkempt face, the guards eyed him so suspiciously he was almost arrested on the spot, so you have to—”

"Hubert."

“—shave, otherwise this will be over before it begins. You can't _really_ think you can show up like this. You have to wear something—”

"Hubert..."

“—new and ironed. A pressed suit, perhaps? You must have a few. You're a diplomat. But Fendelian attire is awfully antiquated, so maybe it would be best if we browsed the shops in Yu Liberte before arriving—”

"Hubert," Malik forces through gritted teeth, sighing when Hubert simply puffs his chest out and huffs in response. "You're overreacting," he says, softer this time, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips.

For once, Hubert thinks, could he just take something seriously?

"I am not overreacting," Hubert mutters, hiding his expression by pushing his glasses up. "I am simply trying to make this meeting go as painlessly as possible."

"By telling me to dress like we're going to a gala?"

Hubert rolls his eyes. “We have to make a good first impression.”

“It’s not a first impression. I’ve met the President before,” Malik counters; Hubert gets to work by scrambling for the buttons on Malik’s jacket, and Malik shoots him a look that doesn’t reach. “It’s a big part of my job.”

“All I’m saying,” Hubert says, his sentence punctuated by the buttons on Malik’s jacket loosening, “is that this has to go absolutely perfectly,” and by the time Hubert’s fingers grasp the last button, Malik is suddenly aware of the chill in their inn room, “because if it doesn’t, I could well lose my job. And the respect of the people.” Stepping back to admire his handiwork, Hubert takes a look at Malik’s exposed chest. “You have to wax. _This_ ,” he huffs, circling the air in front of him, “is not at all proper.”

“Oh? You’re expecting me to strip in front of the President?” Malik smirks, laughing as color rises to Hubert’s cheeks. “Though, I suppose it might be a simple way to explain _why_ you’re turning down his daughter—”

“Stop!” Hubert fumes, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose just to have some way to distract his fumbling hands. He narrowly misses poking himself in the eye instead. “I will _not_ allow you to joke about this. If you convince him that this… _arrangement_ is anything other than strictly professional—”

“Strictly professional? The point of this meeting is to tell him that it’s _not_ strictly professional.” It sounds almost like a joke, but it's humor laden with some distant emotion that even now, Hubert has trouble discerning. Malik’s eyes grow softer, gentler, as Hubert’s expression tightens in a look Malik knows so well by now—the face he makes when he knows he’s defeated, but refuses to admit it. “Hubert, it’ll go fine.”

“How can you know?” comes the reply, with a steely gaze that pierces Malik’s own and nearly makes him falter for a moment. Hubert looks at his feet, his military-issue boots shined and buffed to perfection, the pristine lieutenant with not a scratch on his record before he had to go and do _this_ , whatever it is that he and Malik have. An entire life of exemplary public service, all under the threat of ruin just by allowing himself to have fleeting, selfish moments of happiness.

He’s hesitant to call it a relationship, but by now, what else could it be? And if an ethics committee felt it prudent to investigate that relationship between an ambassador of Strahta and a Fendelian diplomat for any possible conflicts-of-interest, he would have to accept that. It wasn’t as if he was giving Malik or Fendel any extra aid than was necessary—the President had praised him, told him that his trade deals were always fair and beneficial to Strahta—but the threat seems all too real now, his quickened pulse echoing like a clock counting down to their meeting with the President.

And Malik could make it a little easier by at least _listening_ to him once in a while.

“I know that you’ve gained the respect of the people and the President on your own merits,” Malik tells him, drawing closer to Hubert to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. For once, Hubert doesn’t flinch. “This isn’t going to change that.”

“It will if you show up looking like this,” Hubert mutters under his breath, averting Malik’s gaze when he smirks. “And if he asks if I’ve given Fendel special treatment?”

“Well, have you?”

“No,” Hubert responds with conviction—if nothing else, he’s always prided himself on being fair.

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about,” Malik replies. He squeezes Hubert’s shoulder in support, fingers trailing against his sleeves.

Hubert looks away, cheeks flushing with either frustration or embarrassment (Malik still hasn't been able to figure this particular expression of his out yet). “Yes, well, that is still no excuse to act so nonchalant about this.”

“I'm taking it seriously,” Malik responds, backing up slightly and putting his hands up in defense; Hubert's expression tightens in response, ready to criticize. “What, do you expect me to walk in and recount to the President that during the council recess the other day, you pulled me into an empty office and—”

“Enough!” Hubert fumes, forcing Malik back with a push to his chest, narrowing his eyes when Malik laughs warmly. “Don't you dare say anything of the sort, unless you're hoping I get exiled from Strahta!”

“You know, if you did, you could come live with me in Fendel.” Malik smiles, the corners of his lips turned up just too much for it to be reassuring. “It's a bit colder than you're used to, but I've always said the best way to keep warm is bunking together at night.”

Hubert thinks, then, that he made quite possibly the worst decision of his life in deciding to go along with this charade in the first place, with Malik giving him sly gazes and scandalous suggestions while his shirt hangs unbuttoned from his shoulders. “I swear,” Hubert mutters from gritted teeth, counting down from ten in his mind to avoid exploding with anxiety, “if you don't stop right this minute—”

“Hubert,” Malik interrupts, softer and more genuine, smirk fading to a gentle smile that slows Hubert's heartbeat. He reaches out to thread their fingers together for just a moment before pulling back, in the way he’s done so many times before; by now, Hubert has recognized it as a tacit admission of Malik’s tranquil presence beside him.

He thought he had long since stopped his fidgeting, caged his bad habits away for good, but his fingers still tremble despite himself. Annoyingly, Malik has gotten rather adept at noticing this, and even more annoyingly, he’s never mentioned it—he simply relaxes in that easygoing way of his and, without a word, invites Hubert to do the same. Frustrating, he thinks, how utterly frustrating, and yet he finds himself matching Malik’s slow, relaxing deep breaths anyway.

It calms Hubert down somewhat, the shaking of his hands stymied to nervous twitches. He looks up to Malik's eyes, the edges softened, and when he exhales again he finds it easier to swallow his heart back down.

It's quiet for far too long, Hubert's eyes closing and breathing steadying, until Malik edges closer to hold his hand against Hubert's cheek, caressing the soft skin there. Hubert opens his eyes and looks away, cheeks flushed, muttering, “Don't patronize me,” but they both know it's a weak protest because he doesn't move, and instead wraps his own hand around Malik's wrist, gripping it for support and feeling his pulse thunder against his fingertips.

Hubert's eyes have gotten brighter in their time together, his expressions softer and the scowl he used to wear fading slightly, but he still has the same self-imposed blind spot for personal intimacy—and so Malik is the one that has to lean down and close the last few inches between their lips while Hubert shuts his eyes, moving his chin up at Malik's gentle urging.

(And Hubert can still surprise him, sometimes, when he reaches up to run his fingers through Malik's hair, pulling his head closer to crash their lips together, until there's no distance left between them at all.)

What _doesn't_ surprise him is when Hubert moves away a second later, sputtering in embarrassment and righting his skewed glasses, and turns toward the door. "Your hair," he manages between dry coughs, "wash it. Before tomorrow." And then the door closes behind him and he's gone.

Malik chuckles gently before retrieving a bottle of shampoo from his bag.


End file.
